Calling in so sweet, so low a voice,
Strange orders? Yet not strange; for the hot crowd,
Heedless of any difference, swirled on,
Loving its evolutions, and no head
Turned hither.
“Take your Dora by the hand—”
Darius, looking up, saw how the silver
Light of the full moon, mature at zenith,
Fell on the singer. Through one gable window
It fell, and on no head but his, the silvery